American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E2 - Sins of the Fathers
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 2: The fathers in Murder House have many dark secrets & it's the children who suffer for it. Halloween brings out the worst in all of them. Also: See the WHS shooting from Tate's viewpoint, more or less. This episode will squick & possibly bite you so handle this baby with care. Written in the style of the show for the avid fan, not the faint-of-heart. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Sins of the Fathers

This is **Episode 2** of American Horror Story season 1.5 - Murder House Revisited. You should read Episode 1 first or you may be confused later.

* * *

**Sins of the Fathers**

_He will not leave the guilty unpunished, visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children. - Exodus 34_

**1984**

The seven year old boy lay on his stomach on the hardwood floor, coloring by the light of the fire that crackled in the ornate hearth. He had his toy record player beside him playing 'The Big Rock Candy Mountain'. The needle reached the end of the red record where it skidded onto the center label. Tate set his crayon down and lifted the blocky arm of the player. He put the needle down at the outer rim. The merry tune began again and the little boy resumed coloring.

A shadow fell over his book. "Hey, Tater-tot."

Tate looked up and saw a dark silhouette standing near him. He sat up. The figure moved closer.

"Hey," the man said again. "Don't you recognize me?"

Hugo Langdon turned a little so his features could be seen in the firelight. But there were big holes in him leaking blood; so much blood. Tate, horrified, scooted backward. He bumped into the record player. The needle scratched across the glossy red record and the music died.

"Whoa, little man," said Hugo. "It's okay. It's daddy."

"No!" said Tate. "You're not my daddy! You're a bad monster!"

His daddy had run away with another woman. Mommy had told him so. His daddy didn't have bloody holes. So it had to be one of the monsters of the house trying to trick him. They did that sometimes, especially when Mrs. Nora wasn't near to protect him.

"Tate," Hugo said, less gently. "It's me. You know that."

"NO!"

Hugo took a step toward his son, reaching for him.

Tate shut his eyes tight and covered his ears for good measure. "Go away! Go away! You're not my daddy! GO AWAY!"

He had to work up the courage to open his eyes again. When he did, he was alone. He remembered to breathe and reached for the record's arm. He set the needle down at the edge of the record and the song started again, only it had a hiccup whenever it reached the new long scratch. Tate picked up his crayon and settled down to color again. He would never think about the bloody man again.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**2017 - fall, one year ago  
**

Autumn brought an early chill that painted trees in harvest gold and blood red, colors that ran into the gutters with the fallen leaves. Pumpkins appeared on porch steps. Paper skeletons lurked behind windows. Halloween was near.

Around that time of year the old mansion known as 'Murder House' became quite popular with the Eternal Darkness tour circuit. Holiday demand for haunted locations brought the open-air buggy past the home two or three times a day. For the ghosts trapped within, the days before Halloween meant the house loosened its grip, allowing them to escape their prison for short bouts.

But Charles Montgomery never left. For him, the outside world ceased to exist long before he died. He liked the basement. It was his office; his sanctum. He moved through the afterlife in a drugged haze, inhaling remembered ether and working. He was always working. Most times he operated on small animals that had the misfortune to wander into the house. Every once in a while he got the chance to work on a human, one that had occupied or visited the house and fell victim to it. Those days were the happiest for the surgeon.

He was working when Hayden entered his realm. He didn't notice her until she spoke.

"Hey, Dr. Montgomery," she said. "Whatcha working on?"

He reluctantly stopped stitching to look at her with glazed eyes. "Reanimation."

Hayden moved closer, standing right behind him so she could look over his shoulder. Charles used the break to inhale some more of his precious ether. On the table before him was the sliced-open carcass of a half-starved cat. Its heart was still beating. Every now and then its wet lungs would heave a rattling breath.

"God, that's gross," said Hayden. She wasn't put off; just commenting. "Doesn't it get old, playing with animals?"

He lowered the inhalation mask. "It's… what's available."

"Bummer." Hayden dropped an arm around his shoulders. "You'd rather be working on a person. Right?"

The doctor nodded slowly. "But— "

The dead college student pressed a finger over his lips. "I can bring you someone. But if I do, you have to promise to do something for me."

Charles looked at her with vague puzzlement.

"I want a baby," she said.

"I… don't understand," said Charles.

Hayden patted his shoulder. "You will."

...

The next night Hayden returned to the cellar dragging an unconscious woman down the stairs. The woman was around eight months pregnant but her bulk didn't slow the ghost. She wasn't taking special care with the limp form. All she cared about was getting the woman down the steps.

"Dr. Montgomery!" she called. "There's a patient here to see you."

Charles appeared, decked out in a white coat and gloves. His eyes lit up when he saw what Hayden had brought him. "Bring her to the operating table."

The dark-haired girl dragged the pregnant woman to the table near the back rack of specimen jars and hauled her up. Charles repositioned his patient-to-be.

"Remove her clothing," he instructed.

The ether-haze that had clouded the doctor's expression earlier was gone. In its place was an intensely obsessive look that even Hayden found unsettling. So she stopped looking at him and stripped the unconscious lady.

"I don't care what you do with her," she said. "But I want the baby."

Charles nodded then pulled up his surgical mask. "Fasten the restraints."

Hayden looked closer at the table and saw it had leather cuffs padded with wool affixed to its sides – two for the wrists and two for the ankles. She belted them onto the victim, who was beginning to stir.

"There's a gag over on the shelf," the doctor instructed. "Put it on her."

"Kinky," said Hayden.

A quick search found an antique ball-gag. When she turned back to the operating table, Charles had a whole tray of vile-looking tools on a metal tray beside the woman's head. He picked a large obsidian-bladed scalpel from the tray and inspected the fine edge.

The pregnant woman blinked a few times, trying to make sense of where she was. Hayden entered her field of vision and strapped the gag on before the woman could scream. The rubber ball was old but effective: It muted the victim to a strangled whimper. Her struggle against the tight bonds only made Hayden laugh.

"Please leave," said Charles.

Hayden shot a funny look at him. "What? Why?"

Charles ran his hand over the victim's swollen belly. "I need to concentrate. I'll work better alone."

Hayden didn't want to leave but he wasn't going to operate until she did. She rolled her eyes and left him to do what he did best.

...

Four hours later Hayden's patience ran out. She returned to the basement and found Charles slumped in a chair, covered in blood. He was high again.

"Where's my baby?" Hayden demanded.

The doctor lifted a limp, bloody hand to point at the operating table. Blood covered the table and pooled on the floor beneath it. On the table were several large bloody, fleshy lumps. It was a sight sick enough to make Hayden's skin crawl but she approached the table. Charles had been thorough in cutting the woman up. Apart from the brain and heart, which had been jarred and left on the table, Hayden couldn't tell what most of the parts were.

She didn't see a baby in the mess. Anger overwhelmed her distaste.

"Where is it?"

She looked at the doctor but he was sucking more ether. She looked back to the grisly table. She didn't want to touch the stuff but she did, pushing bits and pieces around until she discovered a tiny leg. She shoved a large chunk of meat aside and found the infant. It was covered in gore and not moving.

"God dammit! It's dead!" Hayden grabbed the limp little body and marched over to where Charles sagged in his chair. "I wanted it alive!"

Charles blearily focused on her. "You want it alive?"

"Yes, I wanted it alive!" shouted Hayden. She held the dead baby up by the leg, exposing it as a girl. She gave it a shake. "What good is it to me like this?"

The doctor blinked slowly. "I can… I can make it live…"

"How? It's dead."

"Bring me… another woman."

"Another one? That one wasn't exactly easy to get here," Hayden frowned.

She was still mad but she was also curious to know if Doctor Montgomery could do what he said. She knew about Thaddeus, Charles' own baby, which he'd somehow reanimated. She'd seen the tyke moving around the basement but had never seen him closely. But she did know he'd been cut to pieces and the doctor had brought him back to life.

"Fine," she sighed impatiently. "I'll bring you another whore. But you better not fuck up this time!"

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

While writing this episode I researched surgical cutting tools. I have to say I found it most appropriate that they are named things like 'Gross Anatomy Knife' and 'Rongeur Tool'.

I meant to save this a bit longer but I know there are a couple of folks who're liking it and since Episode 3 is half finished, I figured I'd share now.

This episode is a chapter shorter than the last episode but it hurts a lot more. In the past I've been lovingly accused of setting folks up and knocking them down with my writing. I like to cuddle up before I rip the rug out from under you. But the kid gloves are off now. You've had your kiss. Here comes the poker. My apologies in advance.

You can find Season 1-point-5's playlist in my profile. It's my soundtrack to the action. Listen while you read for the best effect.


	2. Halloween pt 1 - Dead Man's Party

**2017 - Halloween pt. 1 - Dead Man's Party  
**

Murder House was thoroughly decorated for the season; all the stops had been pulled out. The front lawn was aglow with fall-themed luminaries. One section of the yard had been appointed with a host of tiny skeletons decked out in gothic finery, frozen in a danse macabre. A different brilliantly-carved pumpkin sat on every window sill. Just outside the front gates a cauldron of candy had been placed to bribe trick-or-treaters without the need to go up to the door.

Almost all of the windows were lit that night. Indistinct shadows of party-goers flickered past the draped panes. Within the walls a variety of souls socialized. Some were active residents of the mansion, others rarely manifested. Not every ghost of Murder House was present but every ghost that was there was a permanent tenant.

The gathering was the brainchild of Chad, with assistance from Vivien and Moira. Vivien had tried unsuccessfully to draw Violet into the project but despite it being the teen's favorite holiday, she hadn't wanted to help. And instead of attending the party, she was holed up in her bedroom, determined to spend the time reading manga books since Nora had Joshua for the night.

"Are you sure you won't come down?" asked Vivien for the fifth time.

"I'm sure," Violet insisted. She had one of her earphones in her hand and was ready to put it in her ear as soon as her mother left. "You know me, mom. I don't do crowds."

"Okay," Vivien said reluctantly. "If you're sure."

"I am," Violet said, impatience bleeding into her tone.

Vivien nodded and left, pulling the door shut behind her. She headed for the stairs where she hesitated. She had deferred to Chad's judgment where her costume was concerned and she had been second-guessing her choice since putting it on.

It wasn't a vulgar outfit. Chad had better style sense than that. But it wasn't what she would have dreamed up herself. The fox costume consisted of a furry leotard and tail, furry leg warmers, mesh stockings and pointy ears along with a set of what he'd called 'worship-me pumps'. Violet had seemed sincere when she said her mother looked great but Vivien was out of her comfort zone. Still, there was no sense in putting the outfit on if she wasn't going to be seen in it. Vivien gathered her courage and went downstairs.

The house was lively for a dead man's party though it was difficult to tell who was wearing a costume and who was simply appearing the way they had died. It was a little intimidating to see so many faces she didn't recognize. There had to be at least forty people in the house. How long had the house been gathering souls?

A she entered the dining room she passed a woman in a red leather corset and leggings who had a man on a leash. He wore even less than Vivien did: A pair of black shorts, a hat and some Doc Martin boots. She was saved from having to introduce herself when Chad waved her over from across the room. His costume was ornate enough to be a museum piece. He was dressed as the Holy Roman Emperor circa the 18th century, resplendent in black, gold, and red. He was next to a scarecrow display inspired by '_Children of the Corn_' with a dark-haired man in his mid-30s who was dressed like a mariner.

She smiled as she approached them. Chad swept her with a head-to-toe appraisal. "Vivien the vixen," he said with a mixture of approval and pride. Then he said to the man beside him: "Tobias, have you met Vivien? She's one of the last owners."

The man offered her his hand. "It's a pleasure, miss."

He openly admired her outfit and Vivien blushed as she took his hand. His grip was firm and warm. The way his eyes lingered below her neckline made her acutely aware of how little the fox costume covered.

"Nice to meet you, Tobias," she said as she reclaimed her hand. "Are you a former owner?"

"No," said Tobias. "Just a visitor. I knew the folks who owned this place in the late 80's."

"Oh," Vivien said. "I'm sorry to hear that." That didn't sound right so Vivien tried again. "About-" Death as small talk at a party just didn't come naturally to her. "Wow. So. You've been here a while."

"What year is it?" Tobias asked.

"2017," said Chad. "Vivien and I were talking about doing a little New Year's Eve thing for 2020. It's such a nice, round number."

"Yeah?" Tobias said. He looked interested. "I haven't seen a New Year's Eve party in forever."

"You're welcome to come," said Vivien.

Chad's features darkened briefly when Vivien beat him to the invite. The look was gone as quick as it came. Then he saw Ben heading their way.

"Oh, thank God!" Chad exclaimed.

Vivien and Tobias both looked toward Ben, putting three pairs of eyes on him. His smile wavered.

"What?" he asked once he'd reached the group.

"When you said you were going to come as a vampire," said Chad. "I was afraid you were going to wear that atrocious thing you put on for the Open House back-when. This contemporary vampire ensemble is _so_ much better."

Ben was wearing a snug black turtleneck sweater and a pair of black jeans. It wasn't a bad look for him but there was a problem. "I'm not wearing a costume."

Chad gave him a withering stare. Not wearing a costume was an offense even worse than the cliché Dracula outfit. "Well grow some fangs, then. You're already halfway to decent."

"I'm not going to grow fangs," said Ben. "I just want to have a few drinks and enjoy myself."

"It's a Halloween party," Chad said testily. "You can enjoy yourself with fangs. It wouldn't kill you to grow a pair."

Tobias covered an awkward smile by scratching his nose.

"I'm not in the mood," Ben said.

"I'm sure that's the first time you've said _that_," sniped Chad.

"Why don't we go find a drink?" Vivien said to Ben.

She took hold of his arm and steered him toward the kitchen. He allowed himself to be led but he eyed the other men for a few paces.

In the kitchen she led him to the center island where a silver champagne fountain flowed with a red liquor so dark it was nearly black. Vivien handed him an elegant punch cup from the dozen that Moira had surrounded the fountain with. Then she took one for herself and sipped at it while she watched Ben over the rim. He drank his faster than she did, finding the bitter-sweet infusion very easy to drink.

"Why didn't you wear a costume?" asked Vivien. "You knew he'd be upset."

"I just didn't feel like it," he said, setting the empty cup down on the counter. "You look nice, though. Really nice."

She smiled awkwardly and looked into her punch cup. "I feel a little silly in all this fur," she admitted.

Ben imagined her without the fur and smiled. "You don't look silly. You look... hot."

She laughed. "That's what Violet said."

Ben tipped his head. His eyes sparkled mischievously. "The people have spoken."

She smiled back at him. The punch was already going to her head. She felt energized and a bit giddy. The way he looked at her, the way it made her feel... It felt like old, old times.

"There's music in the sitting room," she heard herself say. "Do you want to dance?"

...

Saint Saens. Danny Elfman. Trent Reznor. Even a little remixed Rob Zombie to please the masses. Ben and Vivien danced, more in sync with one another than the music in the background. They had spectators but they saw only each other. And the longer they moved, the closer they drew to each other. Their bodies pressed together. Then they kissed and the world melted away.

When they parted reality firmed up again and they were in one of the bedrooms. It wasn't their room but neither cared at the moment. They were kissing again. Ben tugged Vivien gently but insistently toward the large bed.

They passed an old standing mirror near the foot of the bed and she caught a glimpse of their reflection. It was surreal the way they looked: Her in her vampish fox costume and him dressed all in black. For an instant in the dusty glass he looked like he was wearing the black rubber bondage suit.

She pulled away to look at him but the reflection had lied. He was still wearing the turtleneck sweater and pants he had been wearing all evening. She looked at the mirror again. Rubber Man was gone.

"Viv?" asked Ben.

She shook off the surprise and smiled at him. She didn't try to explain what she'd seen. Strange things always happened at Halloween. If that was the strangest thing she'd see that night, she would count herself lucky. She slid up against her husband and playfully toppled them onto the bedspread. She wasn't going to think about Rubber Man.

She would think instead about Ben's smell and how warm he was as he rolled her to her back. She would think about how soft his dark hair was when she ran her fingers through it and the way his blue eyes smoldered with desire. Vivien pulled at Ben's shirt and he obliged her by removing it. Skin on skin contact felt delicious. She devoured his kiss, tasting him, attempting to drown herself in the sensation of him. When she thought she saw his skin covered in the black shiny rubber she shut her eyes and tried to focus only on sensation and the pleasure Ben was giving her.

Then she started to feel the vinyl. She could hear it. Smell it.

Opening her eyes chased it away briefly. But even at the height of their tempestuous lovemaking the silhouette of the Rubber Man kept flickering over the form of her husband. Eventually Vivien had to accept the persistent vision or else completely freak out. It was easier to believe that it was just the house toying with her perceptions; that it was a manifestation of the horror of the place and not proof of her own inner struggle and disturbed desires. Or Ben's.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

The Halloween chapters are broken into parts 1, 2 and 3 as a tribute to the movie series by the same name. You probably already know the main bad guy in _Halloween_ was a blond kid named Michael who got all stabby. The individual chapter titles are respectively: Pt. 1) (this chapter) An Oingo Boingo song; Pt. 2) a montage horror film about a stabby pumpkin-headed kid; and Pt. 3) a black and white horror movie about a woman who marries into sideshow with plans to steal their money.

Tobias (the mariner) is named for Tobe Hooper, who directed _Poltergeist. _Tobias is also a nod to the AHS website "You're Gonna Die in There" timeline of Murder House victims. The bondage couple are also from YGTDIT.

I like to stay one episode ahead of the posted one. Since Episode 3 is already finished, I'm posting all 3 Halloween chapters at once.

Check my Profile for my AHS 1-point-5 playlist.


	3. Halloween pt 2 - Trick or Treat

**2017 - Halloween pt. 2 - Trick or Treat  
**

A group of four costumed individuals stopped by the half-empty cauldron out in front of the old mansion. The two children in the group dug out handfuls of treats to put into their bulging sacks. One of the adults pushed the gate open. It was Patrick dressed in a black masquerade costume like the one worn by Mozart's father in the film 'Amadeus'.

"I'm going to take Michael home," said Father Jeremiah. He was dressed as a shepherd to go with his young ward's sheep costume. It was Constance's idea of clever costuming.

Patrick lifted his mask. "It sounds like the Halloween party is in full swing," he said. "Feel free to drop in if you want."

Jeremiah smiled. "That's very kind of you but I doubt Miss Constance is—" He stopped himself before he said 'sober'. "Awake. If she is, I might see you later."

Patrick nodded then looked down at the little masked Mozart beside him. "Come on, Ethan. We need to get you inside before your allergy medicine wears off."

It was a necessary lie: They had excused Tate's ability to come out of the house with a made-up 'medicine', a treatment that they said was too painful to endure on a regular basis but that the boy could put up with for one night, for the sake of trick-or-treat. They said their good-nights and the group split in two, each returning to his own home.

When Pat and Tate entered the house it was as bright and lively as it had ever been in life. Warm clove-scented air stopped the winter chill dead at the door. Sounds of music and conversation filled the crowded halls. It took a bit of searching to find Chad among the ghosts. He was chatting in the kitchen with a woman in a shabby Cat Woman getup. Chad excused himself from her company when his trick-or-treaters appeared.

"How did it go?" he asked as he moved over to the large kettle of cider bubbling on the stove. Behind the kettle burned a row of votive candles pushed into Red Delicious and green Granny Smith apples he'd cut into festive candle holders.

"It went," said Patrick. "The kids collected lots of candy."

Chad dunked the silver skeleton hand ladle into the pot and scooped some cider into his goblet, neatly avoiding the floating voodoo doll made of clove-stuck miniature oranges. He arched a brow at Patrick.

The taller man knew what he wanted to hear. "Everyone loved the costumes," he relented.

Chad smiled. "I told you people would still remember. Actors come and go but a good film never dies." He toasted to that.

"I want to go sort my candy," Tate said. He was still wearing his mask. There were too many dead people around for his liking. Too many that might hold grudges.

"Of course you do," Chad agreed. "You'd only be in the way down here. Go ahead. I'll be up in a bit to tuck you in."

"You've been waiting months for this," said Patrick. "Why don't you stay here? I'll go up with him."

"Well," said Chad. The lure of the social limelight was strong; stronger than his desire to stick with routine. It was his first real party in years, literally planned for months, and everything seemed to be going well for a change. "All right." He eyed the sack of treats Tate held. "But don't let him eat all of that tonight."

"I can't get cavities," Tate pointed out.

"But you will leave wrappers," countered Chad. "And I don't want to find a whole mess of them all over the place."

Tate made a face behind his mask. But what he said was: "Okay. Have fun at your party." Then he headed for the entryway and the stairs.

Patrick and Chad hugged goodnight. Then Pat followed Tate upstairs.

In his room Tate shed his mask and upended his treat sack on the bed. Candy spilled out in grand variety. He sat down beside it to examine the haul. It was a fine collection: In addition to a grab-bag of mixed hard and chocolate candies and gum there were several full-sized candy bars as well as some stuff that wasn't edible - miniature cards, stickers and such. Tate plucked a toothbrush from the heap.

"What kind of dick gives out toothbrushes on Halloween?" he wondered. He tossed it over his shoulder.

"I can't believe you're complaining," said Patrick. He sat down on the other side of the bed and sifted idly through the mountain of goodies. "Halloween was nothing like this when I was a kid."

"Yeah, well," Tate said. He examined the opposite side of the candy pile. "When I was a kid, people still gave out home-made shit. Back before people started putting razorblades in stuff and killing little kids."

Pat snorted. "That's an urban legend."

"No, it's not." Tate started sorting his candy into smaller piles. "I heard about this little girl who got a candy bar with razorblades in it. But they were put there by her uncle. The cops arrested him but it was too late. She was dead. He did it because her dad owed him money."

"The version I heard," said Patrick. "It was the girl's dad who did it. He did it because he thought the mother was going to divorce him and take the kid anyway."

He watched Tate sort for a bit then started helping him. Pretty soon there were sizeable piles for chocolate, hard candies, powders, and gum. Non-foods and non-candy foods each had a pile.

"I could see that happening," agreed Tate. "People do messed up shit when they're getting divorced. Usually it's the dad who does it. You notice that? That's how the news wants people to see it anyways. But I think moms probably do just as much fucked up stuff to their kids."

"Most of the domestic violence calls I saw as an EMT, it was a guy who was the instigator," said Patrick. "If the moms are doing it as much, people are reporting it a lot less."

They sorted candy in silence for a while. Below and around them the house hummed with the energy of the night's party.

"Did you ever work Halloween?" asked Tate. He dropped a quarter into the very small money pile.

"A couple of times."

"What was the weirdest thing you saw?"

Patrick considered. "I don't know. I guess the naked zombie pregnant man was the weirdest at Halloween."

"Naked zombie pregnant man?"

Pat nodded and pushed the chocolate pile away from the edge of the bed. "Yeah. He had a cut-up baby doll bursting out of his middle. He was drunk. Ran off the road and hit a light pole. I don't think they ever found his clothes."

"I think clothes were the least of his problems. Oh, ugh!" Tate exclaimed abruptly. "I _hate _these things."

Patrick looked over.

Tate held up an orange-wrapped peanut butter taffy. "Here. You can have it."

"I don't want it." Pat had no interest in any of the candy beyond sorting it.

"Take it," Tate insisted. "I don't want it polluting my loot."

"I'm not taking your cast-off candy rejects. Throw it away if you don't want it."

Patrick picked up an Almond Joy and was about to put it in the chocolate pile when the orange-wrapped taffy bounced off his temple. He glared at Tate who looked back at him with false innocence.

Pat dropped the Almond Joy and grabbed the candy Tate had thrown at him. He tore the wrapper off. "Now what should I do with this..?" he said.

"You unwrap it, you keep it," Tate declared, arming himself with more candy.

Pat made a grab for the boy's arm but Tate was ready. He flung a handful of gumballs in defense and scooted backward. Patrick shielded his face but didn't break off the attack and wound up in the unsorted candy pile. His fingers brushed Tate's sleeve. Tate pulled away, misjudged the amount of space he had and fell to the floor. A rain of candy followed him. He grabbed what he could with both hands. He expected Patrick to descend on him from above so he lay there on his back, ready to throw the candy.

He could feel the beat of the music downstairs in his back. There was no movement from above.

Tate wanted to peek but just knew he'd get smacked in the face if he did. But he wasn't long on patience. He propped himself on his elbows to improve his view. That's when Patrick grabbed his ankle and hauled him halfway under the bed.

Tate tried to kick free but he couldn't see what he was doing thanks to the antique bed skirt. He twisted and flopped to his stomach and tried to pull away but he lacked the upper body strength. So he aged up to his teenaged state and pulled hard. Patrick released him and crawled out from under the bed. He had the candy in one hand and he grabbed the seat of Tate's pants with the other.

"Hey!" Tate objected and tried to scramble away.

Pat was counting on that. He kept hold of Tate's pants. The teen went forward and the pants stayed behind. Suddenly realizing the ploy, Tate flipped over to protect his backside. Patrick tossed the clothing aside and closed in. His evil smile made it plain he wasn't going to be thwarted by a simple change in position.

Tate snatched the taffy cube from his hand and popped it in his mouth before Patrick could stop him. It was gross but better than the alternative. Patrick's expression cycled quickly through surprise and irritation to settle on a smirk. He grabbed the teen's chin. Tate expected the buff guy to pry open his jaw but he didn't. Instead he pressed his mouth to Tate's and shoved his tongue in.

Tate froze. He nearly lost the candy to Patrick's probing tongue before he found the sense to do anything. He couldn't let the man retake it. He knew him well enough to know that if he did, the candy would go somewhere he really didn't want it. So he fought back.

Gravity was on his side but taking the piece of taffy away from Patrick only made him chase after it. They fought over it until Tate finally swallowed the thing but by then it had stopped being about the candy. Close contact led to incidental bumping led to deliberate grinding. Tate was afraid of what might happen if he resisted at that point but more than that he found the inappropriate contact very arousing. He liked how Patrick reacted when he rubbed back. It made him feel... wanted. Wanted and horny.

Patrick had wanted the priest. But his libido wanted what was readily available. His lust was a drug and he'd gone way too long without a fix. He'd swapped hundreds of blowjobs with strangers since dying but it had been almost ten years since he'd actually had sex. Sex with a mortal outside the house was difficult for many of the ghosts. But they weren't mortal and they weren't outside the house. Tate responded to his advances. That was all it took.

Patrick wasn't gentle. He knew how to fuck a twink to get and give pleasure without having to play nice. Pat learned that Tate had meant it when he'd said he liked it rough. Tate learned that he'd meant it too. It was grungy. It was base. They sucked and fucked for hours. Then dawn came and with it came guilt and self-loathing. They cleaned up the scattered candy together by unspoken agreement. Then Patrick retreated. Tate spent the rest of the day in bed, staring at the wall.

The day after Halloween was a day most of the ghosts of Murder House spent by themselves. The night rarely left anyone unscathed.

This year was no exception.

...

* * *

Authors' Note:

Warning! Slash! General squickiness!

Oh. Was that too late? Sorry.

Well. No. I'm not. AHS is all about those moments where your eyes bug out and you grab your head and go "Whaaa-?!" I will never warn you ahead of time when one of those moments is coming. I can't surprise you if you see it coming a mile away.

I knew that Chad wanted to do a Mozart-themed group costume with his little family, with Tate as Amadeus Mozart, the composer, and Pat as Herr Mozart, Amadeus' father. Chad would be Holy Roman Emperor Joseph II, whom Amadeus performed for. I had to research Chad's emperor costume for accuracy.

Interesting facts I learned: The emperor's brother's name was Leopold, which also happens to be Mozart's father's first name. Amadeus was friends with composer Haydn and he married a woman named Constanze. Oh. And: Jeffrey Jones, who played Emperor Joseph II in the movie _Amadeus,_ was charged in 2003 with a sex crime involving a 14 year old boy. Go figure.

Next chapter is the last rerun of Halloween night 2017, this time from Father Jeremiah's point of view.


	4. Halloween pt 3 - Freakshow

**2017 - Halloween pt. 3 - Freakshow  
**

Constance surprised Jeremiah by being both awake and mostly sober when he brought Michael home. She set aside her painting to help the boy out of his costume and the three of them looked through his candy together. Afterward, Mama Constance and Michael curled up together under her big fluffy throw to watch the Great Pumpkin.

It didn't take long for the pair to fall asleep and while Jeremiah could sit through cartoons with an active audience, he had no interest in watching alone. He checked the locks and dimmed the lights. He debated going to bed but it was still early by his personal standards. Eventually he let himself out and, locking the door behind him, he went next door.

Pushing past the gate, he could tell the party was still going on. He'd never seen the place so busy in the years he'd been in the neighborhood. The front door was open when the priest in shepherd's clothing arrived on the decorated porch. He considered ringing the bell but someone had taped a 'bloody' note over it that read: _Ring hell's bells and die. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here._

He took that to mean he should let himself in. He stepped across the threshold into flickering candlelight. Candles of all sizes lined the steps between the rails, clustered in groups on the sideboard, and perched on shelves. There was a dizzying scent of cloves and allspice in the warm air.

Father Jeremiah looked through the nearest doorways and saw costumed people in both directions. He had no idea who was whom or where the home's owners might be so he struck out toward the kitchen. In the wood paneled hall he passed a woman in a Venetian masquerade outfit whose lavishly ornamented dress would have been amazing on its own without the gruesome splash of blood that stained the bodice courtesy of her slit throat.

In the kitchen he had a cup of cranberry stuff from the champagne fountain then he explored the gory appetizers. There were 'finger' sandwiches and olive 'eyes' with thin strips of wavy pepper for a realistic veined appearance. A mushroom arrangement managed to look poisonous and delicious at once. A decadent spread of cupcakes speared with 'broken glass' sugar came in plain and with bloody icing.

"Artistic flair in food," Jeremiah said appreciatively as he took one of the 'finger' sandwiches. "I love it."

"They say the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach," a woman said right behind him.

He turned and found himself just inches from a sultry young woman with head of fiery red curls. She wore a maid's outfit that made him glad he was wearing a loose shepherd's robe.

"Indeed," he smiled. He couldn't back up or he'd be sitting in the cakes. "It's a curse." He wedged his free hand between them. "Father Jeremiah."

"Moira," said the young woman.

She touched his hand and he felt a sudden and incredibly strong impulse to pull her into his arms for a deep, wet kiss. He forced himself to let go of her hand, which cut the urge in half.

"Er," he said. "Do- do you know where the bathroom is?"

A funny look flitted across the pretty woman's pale features. "There's one upstairs, third door from the landing."

He smiled and excused himself. He hardly noticed the people he brushed by on his way to the stairs. The drink he'd had was far stronger in effect than it had been in flavor. He blamed it for amplifying the effect the maid had on his libido and the way reality was beginning to blur around the edges.

It was quieter on the second floor than it had been on the first, though it was as painstakingly decorated as the downstairs. Flickering candles lined the walls, broken up with leering Jack-o-lanterns. Father Jeremiah headed down the hall.

He intended to count his way to the third door but paused at the first when, glancing in, he saw a dark-haired young woman pacing. She was holding a bundle that was wrapped in a long red shawl. The extra length of crimson fabric spilled down her side and leg in way that reminded him too much of the Venetian woman with the slit throat.

The dark-haired girl sang softly to her armful in a minor key that struck the priest as peculiar. But then everything had taken on the feel of a strange dream to him. Her dark eyes lifted and locked with his. Her gaze was eerily intense, like Ethan's.

"Say happy birthday to my baby," she said. "Her name's Shelly. I named her after the girl in the _The Crow_." She looked down at the bundle she held. "Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children..."

She turned away and started singing to her baby again. Jeremiah thought it best to move along.

The next two doors were shut. He moved past the first one and opened the next. If he remembered the maid's directions, he should have been at the bathroom. But the room he faced was another candle-choked room. Golden light danced over Halloween candy that was scattered everywhere. Candy covered the bed and littered the floor where two bare bodies were entwined in the heat of rough passion.

It only took a moment to identify Patrick and for a horrid instant Jeremiah thought it was Ethan he was having sex with. But the blond beneath him was older - a young man. Patrick was beyond noticing the intrusion but youth looked right at the priest and put a hand out in his direction.

Jeremiah blinked drowsily and suddenly found himself naked and caught up in the middle of the tangle of hot flesh. The orgy was so intoxicating and so real, it would have been simple bliss to let the moment carry him away. It was carnal satisfaction to a hunger the likes he'd never known. It took all his willpower to force his way out of the dream-reality.

With a gasp Jeremiah found himself back in the doorway, his heart hammering and body reacting to the strong signals the vision had sent. The young man on the floor was still reaching for him only his face had changed. A menacing skull of black ink stained his features.

Jeremiah fled.

He thought he had doubled back but he couldn't find the stairs. The house seemed to be stretching before him, growing rooms and turns and losing others. The faces of the Jack-o-lanterns grew creepier, more sinister and suggestive. White candles dripped red wax that pooled and ran in bloody rivulets down the surfaces they'd been left on.

The disoriented man found his way to a landing where an elderly gentleman in a maroon coat sat smoking a long, thin pipe. His eyes were like opals. A table beside him was covered with all sorts of unusual liquors, most of the bottles dusty with age. A tarnished silver absinthe carafe nestled in the center. The man said something to Jeremiah but the priest couldn't hear what he was saying. He couldn't focus on anything but the man's weird milky-white eyes.

The world rushed forward and blurred into so many colors and intensity of sound, smell and perception that he couldn't keep up with it. Everything went black.

When he woke, Jeremiah was safe at Constance's home, in his bed. He had a slight headache and a vague recollection of a really intense party but there were no details to the memory. Despite the lack - or because of it - he said a few additional prayers that day. But it didn't ease the tainted feeling that haunted the fringes of his thoughts.

**...**

**2018 - morning after the earthquake**

The waking world came slowly to Father Jeremiah, against his will. He had been up until the wee hours of the morning sitting at the hospital with Michael, waiting to find out what would happen next. The doctor had called the time of death shortly after the arrival of Constance's body but it still took several hours of processing and paperwork and just plain waiting before they had been able to return home. Jeremiah had put Michael to bed and fallen asleep on the couch shortly after.

Only four hours had passed since he'd crashed out but the smell of coffee was so strong, he couldn't help wondering where it was coming from. He hadn't put any on. The mystery wouldn't let him drift off again but it was the sound of dishes rattling that really brought him around.

"Michael?" he grunted, sitting up. He swiped sleep from his eyes and blinked in the direction of the kitchen.

"Of course it isn't Michael, silly," Constance chided in good humor from the doorway. She had a plate of raw bacon in her hand. "Do you want toast?"

Jeremiah blinked dumbly at her a few times. Then he rubbed his eyes furiously. When he looked at the doorway she was gone. He shook his head. The smell of coffee was still strong. He got up and went to the kitchen. Looking in, he saw Constance at the stove, laying strips of bacon in a preheated pan. Fresh coffee was percolating.

"Constance?" Father Jeremiah asked. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

She flashed a quick smile at him. "What's the matter with you? You aren't comin' down with somethin', are you?"

Jeremiah rubbed his forehead. His head hurt. "Er. I'm not... sure."

He thought back over recent events. He remembered the eternal sitting in the hospital waiting room with Michael's head on his lap. He remembered waiting by Constance's body on the sitting room couch before the ambulance came. He remembered fetching her out of the house next door.

He remembered her dying.

But here she was, plain as the morning, making bacon and toast. She looked fine; better than usual, in fact.

"You might want to lay back down," she advised in her mother-knows-best tone. "If you're comin' down with something, we don't want you spreadin' it around."

Jeremiah was tempted to follow her advice. If he lay back down and woke up again, perhaps the world would start making sense again. But he couldn't. If Michael woke and found his dead godmother serving breakfast... it just wasn't something Jeremiah could risk sleeping through.

"Uh, Constance," he said. "Do... you remember anything from last night?"

"Just that nasty storm," she said. She put the last of the bacon in the pan and set the plate in the sink. "Took out the power. But they got it fixed right quick, didn't they?"

"Do you remember going next door?"

Constance paused and looked at him. "Next door? No. Why would I do that?"

Jeremiah wasn't sure how to answer that. "You were checking to make sure they were okay. There... there was an earthquake."

The verbal prompt didn't seem to jog her memory.

"You don't remember the quake?" said Jeremiah.

She shook her head and smiled. "I honestly don't."

He returned the smile with a fake one but she was already back to her cooking. He had no idea what to do. He had seen many unusual things in his time and had thought himself prepared for just about anything when he took this assignment but this was beyond his personal scope. Terra incognita.

"Constance," he tried again. "There was an earthquake last night. A pretty serious one."

She turned the bacon and checked on the toast. "Can't have been too bad. We have power."

"It went out last night," Jeremiah said. "There was- we thought there might have been an ambulance next door so you went over to check on the neighbors. Do you remember that?"

"I already told you I don't," said Constance. "Why is it so important? Are you tryin' to get me off the sauce again? Because I didn't have hardly anythin' to drink last night."

"No," Jeremiah said emphatically. "Constance, you got hurt."

She looked at him quizzically. "Don't be silly. I feel fine."

"I saw you get crushed by part of the house," said Jeremiah.

She frowned at him like he'd gone crazy. "I think you had yourself a really bad dream, sweetheart. Go lay down on the couch. I'll bring the thermometer in after I finish cookin'. I've still got Addie's doctor's number... He makes house calls."

"I don't need a doctor," Jeremiah insisted. He was beginning to feel a bit crazy though. Could he be mistaken? He decided to fall back and rethink his approach. "I think I will lay down. Just... Yeah."

He left the kitchen but he headed upstairs, to Michael's room. He peeked into the dark room but the boy was still asleep. Jeremiah hesitated to wake him. If he remembered Constance dying, then he would likely be an emotional tangle already. If he didn't and Constance's death was just a bizarrely realistic dream of Jeremiah's, he didn't want to upset the boy with it.

He shut the bedroom door and sat down beside it to wait for Michael to wake on his own.

...

The earthquake had left a dislodged beam in the foyer of Murder House and a sinkhole in the back yard. The sinkhole wasn't spreading so the city simply inspected the nearby pipes and cordoned off the hole. Then they left it for the property manager to deal with.

The fallen beam in the foyer eventually attracted Nora. She, like the other souls in the house, had been occupied the night the earthquake felled the beam but now its presence bothered her to no end. She wasn't strong enough to move the thing. Fixing it was beyond her scope of imagining. So she circled it repeatedly, patting the wood occasionally, and muttering to herself about it.

"Mrs. Montgomery," said Hayden impatiently. She'd called the woman's name four times and only now seemed to be registering. "Mrs. Montgomery! It's your turn to watch the babies!"

Nora glanced over at the impertinent young serving girl. "How dare you take such a tone with me," she scolded. But the wooden beam was distracting, keeping her from injecting much acid in her words. "You were hired to watch my baby. If you didn't like the terms, you shouldn't have taken the job."

Hayden rolled her eyes in disgust. As long as the foyer was a mess, she'd get no help from the blond woman. "Gah!" she exclaimed and stomped out of the room.

She would have to wrangle both of the little monsters herself. Again.

They were easy to find. They loved the basement as much as Charles did. She could always count on finding Shelly in the mustiest, most disgusting crevice and she was usually there with Thaddeus. They chewed on one another as often as they got along but the damage, while disgusting to see, didn't seem to bother either infant for long. But the noise they made could get nerve-wracking.

Hayden found Shelly and dug her out of a pile of mildewed rags. At nearly a year old, she was amazingly lifelike and passably close to what a human baby should be. Her skin was too pale and had a bluish pallor thanks to gray veins that lay just beneath her thin paper-white skin. Her black hair was patchy but many babies had patchy hair. It was her sightless white eyes and her brackish hole of a mouth that really set her apart. But she was, in Hayden's eyes, far more beautiful than any living baby. To her, the child was perfection. Perfection coated in mildew from the rags.

"If you could stop sucking gas," she snapped at Charles as she stalked away from the screeching lump that was Thaddeus. "Your son wants you."

The doctor waved her away from his worktable. He didn't lower the inhalation mask.

Of course Thaddeus didn't take the removal of his playmate well. He latched onto Hayden's leg and delivered a sharp bite. She yelped and kicked the little brute off. Shelly laughed.

"Dammit!" Hayden swore. She looked around for the infantata but he had hidden himself among the jarred specimens. "You want to 'go away', Thaddeus? Keep biting me and see what happens."

As she took her baby upstairs she heard Thaddeus mewling but she pretended not to hear. Then at the top step she paused to say, "Maybe next time you won't bite me. Only good babies get held."

...

Violet got an email from Billie Dean the day after the earthquake. While it confirmed her general impression that the world favored tragedy, Violet was glad to hear back from the psychic. In her email Billie Dean said she had seen the ghost hunters' feed as well as the news about the earthquake and that she would be coming to California that Thursday. She would be at the house in two days.

Violet was elated. She'd always felt Billie Dean had understood her better than anyone, with the exception of Tate. She could surely help her make sense of things now. The teen re-read the email a few times before setting to answering. She wanted to convey a sense of gratitude without being all smarmy about it. It took her nine tries but she finally had something she was happy with and sent it off.

Two days. Two days and the world would change.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Shelly is A) the name of a murdered woman in the comic book _The Crow_ by J. O'Barr as well as the name of the little girl in the movie adaptation; B) the name of a famous poet who is often attached to "Byron and..."; C) the last name of Mary, who wrote Frankenstein. She is now also D) Hayden's little monster.

Halloween's over. Time to get back to the routine. Next chapter: Therapy!


	5. Chapter 5 - Adjustment Period

**2014 - winter (4 months into foster plan)  
**

"So how's it going, Tate?" Dr. Harmon asked once the boy had shifted to his teen aspect and made himself comfortable on the couch. "How are you adapting to things?"

"Always gotta go for the throat, huh?" said Tate. "Why can't you ever ask me easy shit like... 'What's your favorite book' or 'Seen any good movies lately'?" He lowered his chin for a sincere look. "Really, doc. Where's the love?"

Ben knew a dodge when he heard one but he had time to spare so he played along. "All right, Tate. What's your favorite book?"

Tate hesitated and chewed on the cuticle of his thumb. Ben just smiled mildly at him.

"I like lots of books," he said after a while. "I like Salinger's _'Catcher in the Rye_' a lot though. I like it because it stinks." He saw the odd look on the therapist's face and asked: "Have you read it?"

"Yes. You like it because..."

"It stinks," Tate repeated. "Here you've got this kid who spends the whole book whining about how tough his life is and it's this total bullshit waste of time for everybody. For him, his parents, the teachers, even his little sister, right? So it's this big waste of time for everybody reading it, too. Only Salinger, see? He's smart 'cause he threw in one curse word and suddenly nobody even notices how crappy the book is. No. Now everybody wants a copy just because it's been banned."

"It was more the sexual references that got it banned," said Ben. "People didn't write about things like that back then."

"Doesn't matter why it was banned, really," Tate dismissed. "Just that it was banned."

"So you don't like the story itself?" Dr. Harmon clarified. "Just the controversy around it?"

Tate nodded. "Totally. I mean, how can you not admire a piece of crap that can get so many people fired up? That's a pretty awesome piece of crap."

"Interesting," Ben smiled. "Now. I'd really like to know how've you've been doing these past few weeks. Unless you've seen any good movies lately."

"I haven't been getting out much," said Tate. He shifted so that he was sitting cross-legged on the couch. "So that's sort of cramped my movie-watching."

"Why are you avoiding talking about what you've been doing recently?" asked Ben.

"I'm not. There's just nothing to say."

"If you're going to lie to me," the doctor said. His smile was gone. "At least make it more creative than that."

Tate twisted the ring he wore around his thumb. "I don't want to lie to you, Doctor Harmon. I just don't know what you want to hear."

"It's a simple question, Tate. I just asked how you were settling into the new arrangement." Ben wrote some notes on his pad.

"Oh." Tate tried to focus on what the man had said, not what he might be writing. "Well. Okay, I guess. It's sort of weird to do things that living people do. Eating family meals again. That's kind of weird."

"Other than that would you say things have improved? Gotten worse?"

Tate inspected his fingernails. He'd been chewing on them again; they were all ragged. "It's not so bad. Except when Chad starts going on about crafting. He was telling me about this loom thing he had that he didn't even like but he was going to use it anyway and..." He made a face. "He wouldn't shut up about it till I fell asleep. Seriously. I fell _asleep_. I thought I was going to have to kill myself before he'd stop."

"So everything's going great, apart from eating. And crafting."

"Peachy keen," Tate agreed.

"You do know I talk to them," reminded Dr. Harmon.

"What do you want me to say? You want me to say it sucks?" Tate looked martyred.

Ben knew this dance. He just needed to know why they were doing it. He regarded the grungy teen and decided to drop the proverbial gloves. "Let's make this easy. I'll ask a few questions and you can answer 'yes' or 'no'."

"Okay..." Tate was dubious.

"Are you generally satisfied with how things have been going?"

"Yeah. Yes."

Ben smiled reassuringly. "Is it more difficult than you thought it would be?"

Tate made a face. "Yeah," he admitted.

"Have there been any challenges you felt you couldn't handle?"

That question took longer to answer. "No."

"Have there been any problems that have come up between the three of you since our last meeting?"

There was an even longer pause. Tate rubbed his eyes. "Well. Yeah. But-"

"Just yes or no right now," Ben said mildly. "Were you able to resolve those issues?"

Tate frowned. He wasn't liking the yes-and-no game so much. "Yes."

"Were you the cause of any of those issues?"

"Well. I guess but-"

"Ah-ah," Ben held up his pencil like a stop sign. "Yes or no."

Tate's dislike for the game grew. He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward. "Yes."

"Is Chad holding to his end of the agreement?" Ben was writing again.

"Yeah."

"Is Patrick?"

"Yes. Can we stop this now?"

Ben arched his brows. "Do you want to talk now?"

"You're a real prick sometimes," Tate grumbled.

"It's for your own good," Ben smiled and patted him on the knee. "So tell me. How is it, suddenly having to play by someone else's rules after being off the hook for so long?"

Tate sighed and shrugged. "Sometimes it feels like prison. Chad's got this stupid thing with my hair." He ran a hand through the dirty blond mop. "He freaks out whenever I don't make it like he wants. But can't I have just one little thing that's mine? You know?"

Dr. Harmon studied the boy. "Why is it so important to you?"

That wasn't the response Tate expected. He'd anticipated a bit more understanding. "It's a stupid haircut. I don't like looking like a dork."

Ben couldn't completely contain his self-satisfied smirk. "It's not about the hair, Tate. You're afraid to let go."

Tate was stung. He thought about denying it - he really did hate the haircut - but he knew the therapist was also right. "Of course I am. If I do, what happens if I start forgetting more stuff? I already can't remember so much stuff," he said, dark eyes filling with tears. "Even when I try. But that doesn't stop people from blaming me for stuff. Fuck. You know what I mean. I know you do. I know you don't remember stuff you did when you were living here. Like the stove. Or the fireplace."

"You don't really believe your hair is going to help your memory," Ben said. He had to force himself to ignore the personal digs.

Tate sniffled. Tears dripped off his chin. "Well, when you say it like that," he said. "It sounds kind of stupid." Then he was laughing. Laughing and crying.

"Try dealing with the hairstyle for a few months," the therapist advised. He offered Tate a box of tissues as an option to the shirt hem he was using to mop his face. "Maybe if you do, he'll be more likely to compromise."

Tate ignored the box till it went away. "Easy for you to say. You already have a Chad-approved haircut."

"You've said a lot about Chad," said Ben. He tilted back in his chair as he looked at Tate. "What about Patrick?"

"He doesn't really care how I have my hair."

Ben was beginning to find the constant blocking tedious. So he went for the direct approach again. "Is he still beating you regularly or has he backed off?"

"Oh," said Tate. "That. Things are better. I'm not his butt-kicking hobby anymore." He was okay with saying that. It was true, even if it didn't volunteer anything that might complicate the discussion.

Fortunately Dr. Harmon wasn't relying solely on Tate's input for the bigger picture. "And you're comfortable with the way problems are being resolved between you?"

"Yeah. I mean, the whole thing was kind of weird at first, you know?" Tate tugged on his sleeves. "But it's not so bad. It's kind of... nice having a family. Even if it's a pretend one."

Ben nodded. "I know what you mean." He consulted his notes then looked over at the teen. "How are the nightmares?"

Tate made a face. "The same."

Ben scribbled something then looked over his notes again. "There's a new pill out now-"

Tate heaved a dramatic sigh. "Not again." He shot Ben a hurt look. "Every time I make progress, you start talking about pills."

"There are things you can take that can help you," the doctor said. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a few nights without bad dreams?"

Tate looked at his hands and started picking one of his frayed sleeve cuffs. "I don't want to take pills. I don't like how they make me feel."

"You haven't even tried these."

"You know," Tate said, still picking at his sleeve. "Therapist is actually two words. The. Rapist. The-rapist."

Ben bit back his irritation as best he could. "Think about the pills. We'll talk about your dreams next time. Session's over."

...

Tate, back in six year old form, sat as still as he could in front of the dressing mirror. It was a difficult task because of the way Chad was yanking his hair. The pain made his lower lip pooch but he didn't complain. He should have changed it when he regressed after the session but things with Dr. Harmon had gone so badly, he forgot to.

"What you do in your therapy sessions is your business," Chad said, pulling the hairbrush roughly through Tate's blond mop. "But I _insist_ on you fixing this _mess_ before I see you. It's absolutely disgusting. Do you enjoy looking like a homeless crack addict? Because that's exactly what you look like. Stray dogs have better hygiene."

Tate knew he should apologize. Or promise not to do it again. But if he said anything he'd start crying and that would just make him feel even worse than he already did.

Chad read the silence as obstinacy. He swiped the brush through a tangled patch of Tate's hair. "I swear you do this just to piss me off."

"No I don't," Tate whined. He pressed the sleeves of his sweater to his cheeks to sop up the tears that spilled over.

Chad only saw the cuffs of the sleeves that Tate had picked apart during the session. "Oh, for God's sake, Tate! You tore up another shirt?" He grabbed one of the boy's wrists and inspected the damage. "It's ruined. Of course."

He dropped the offending limb and slapped the hairbrush down on the dresser. Then he went to the closet where he slammed the door open and rifled through the shirts he'd so carefully organized. He pulled out a t-shirt and thrust it at the miserable boy.

Tate looked at it but he didn't take it. "It has short sleeves. I don't like short sleeves."

Chad gave him a look that suggested he was treading dangerous ground. "Until you learn how to show a little self-control, young man, you can wear short sleeves."

"I can't," Tate said.

"Oh, yes you can," said Chad. "Get that rag off your back right now and put this on."

Tate looked at him for a moment, stricken. Then he shrugged the sweater off. That's when Chad saw the scars. There were several long, thin lines that striped the boy's arms between the wrists and elbows: Evidence of old self-mutilation habits. Violet was the only other ghost in the house who'd seen the marks. But she understood.

"They don't go away," Tate said. "I don't know why."

Chad brushed aside his surprise. A little of his irritation went with it. "How long were you cutting?" He tugged the shirt over the boy's head then left him to finish the job. He picked up the hairbrush.

Tate pulled the t-shirt the rest of the way on. "I don't know. A few years. But my mom caught me. I stole some of those double-edged razorblades from her bathroom. She had one of those old twist-top shavers, you know?"

Chad repositioned the boy on the stool then started brushing his hair again, less vigorously than before but still efficient.

"The blades were so sharp," said Tate. "It didn't even hurt at first. Not at all. The blood just was, like, there. And it was just so..." Beautiful. It was beautiful. But he wasn't supposed to like the thought of blood. His face scrunched up briefly as he tried to refocus. "I used it one time to decorate my Halloween costume. I went as Michael Meyers. I had this stupid rubber knife. It looked so... stupid. But when I put the real blood on it, it looked okay. So the next couple times I cut, I smeared more on. It looked great. I took it trick-or-treating."

Chad's jaw shifted as he considered real blood as a Halloween prop. He couldn't help feeling it was inventive; psychotic, but not entirely without merit. He turned Tate's head so he could brush the other side. "But you stopped butchering yourself after your mother caught you?"

Tate looked around, trying to see Chad without moving or resorting to looking in the mirror. When he found he couldn't, he looked back down at his hands. "Yeah. She walked in while I was doing it. She freaked. She grabbed my arm to pull me out of my room and blood went everywhere. That freaked out my sister. Everybody was screaming. Mom made me get stitches at the hospital. She said if I did it again she'd let them put me in the loony bin. So..." He shrugged a shoulder and twitched a smile that dimpled one cheek. "I found a new hobby."

"And we can see how well that worked out," Chad said.

Tate tried to slouch into himself but the gay man tugged rudely at his hair till he sat straight again.

"We'll get you some new sweaters," said Chad after a bit. "This time. But I swear if you tear them up again, I'm going to make you learn how to crochet your own as punishment.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Next chapter: Macrame and pasta collage! No. Not really. I'm not that crewel*. There are 2 more chapters in this episode. Stay tuned. What comes next may give you bad dreams.

* Crewel: loosely twisted yarn used in needlepoint and fancy embroidery

Check my Profile for my AHS 1-point-5 playlist.


	6. Chapter 6 - Nightmares

**2016 - late summer**

Rubber Man hung above Tate's bed, limbs bent and twisted outward till they became the night shadows that covered the ceiling. The shiny rubber creature stretched in ways no human could and most ghosts would avoid. But to him, it was as effortless as a spider crossing its web.

He pulled his arms free and reached for the childlike apparition that was sleeping below. Rubber Man had learned how to home in on the dreams of the dead. He could press into their minds to spy on their unconscious thoughts. He had practiced many times on Tate as well as other spirits in the house. What a ghost was, what could affect it, those things were of great interest to the one who piloted the shiny black suit. This time he brought a syringe, filled with a fast-acting sedative.

He jabbed the boy in the neck. He waited a few seconds then the rubber monster descended to crouch over the boy. He raided Tate's nightmares, intensified them. He couldn't reshape them - not yet - but he thought the potential was lurking there. For now he was content to test the extent of the drug's ability to keep the antagonized mind asleep.

... ...

Tate dreamt in black and white. Like footage from a security camera. It was bright out; too hot for the long black coat he wore. But it was essential for his uniform, along with the combat boots and black fatigues. It gave him confidence. Power.

He'd slept little the past week. He'd done drugs to fuel his rage, though he didn't need the help. He felt godlike. He didn't have to put much effort into hiding his arsenal at home and getting it to school was stupidly easy. Mom never looked in his room. She trusted her perfect boy, even after everything he'd done since Larry entered the picture. Since Beau was murdered. His mother couldn't care less what Tate did so long as he wasn't her problem.

He took long strides as he crossed the lawn of Westfield High School. He could see two people sitting on the grass, eating lunch. One was a guy he barely knew. The guy was sitting with Violet. Tate had never attended school with Violet in reality but in his dream he did. In his dream she'd been there since kindergarten.

She'd been so nice to him when they were little. He loved her from the start. But high school came and she washed away into a crowd of strangers who hated him. He looked everywhere but only caught glimpses of her in the halls. It was like she was avoiding him. He wrote her love notes but he could never catch her to give them to her. He needed her to see him. But she never did.

And there she was sitting there with that guy. She laughed and her beautiful eyes sparkled. She would never love Tate. But she _would_ see him.

"I'm the illegitimate son of God," Tate said to himself and raised his pump-action shotgun.

And she did see him then. Her beautiful eyes met his. He pulled the trigger and a hole appeared in her forehead. She fell backward. Blood leaked out of the back of her head along with clumps of her hair and brains. She was the first to die.

The boy next to her scrambled to his feet but Tate already had him targeted. He pulled the trigger and the boy fell. Just like a video game. The coat was making Tate sweat so he shed it, exposing his 'Normal People Scare Me' t-shirt worn over a black thermal. Then he walked over to where the guy had dropped. He was still moaning so Tate shot him in the face.

Then he saw Violet again. She was so still and pale and there was so much blood all over the grass. Horrified, Tate dropped his shotgun and fell to his knees beside her body. Tears blinded him.

"Violet! Violet, wake up! I didn't mean it! "

He pulled her close and bawled incoherently into her shoulder. Around him he could hear people screaming. He had to let her go.

Tate grabbed his gun and staggered to his feet. Tears and blood streaked his face. Everyone who saw him ran. He tried to shoot everything that moved. Without Violet nothing mattered.

He shot and shot till the halls of the school were riddled with bullets and the floors were slick with blood. And when it was all over... he was alone.

No police came. No parents. Nobody came.

No one cared.

Nobody ever cared what Tate did. Why would they care if he killed people?

He sank down on the library floor, sobbing and hugging his handgun. He wanted someone to care. He didn't really want to kill all those people. Not really. He just wanted someone to care about what was happening to him. He wanted someone to notice that he was going off the rails. But nobody stopped him. Why hadn't somebody stopped him before he got that far? Now everybody was gone.

He turned the gun around and put the barrel in his mouth. He pulled the trigger without hesitation but nothing happened. The gun wouldn't fire.

He screamed in rage and threw the weapon. Then he dropped to a fetal ball, hands in his hair, and wailed into the rug.

... ...

A few hours later Rubber Man was satisfied. He slipped out of the room and into the hall where he slid down the shadows of the wall. He took form beside the closed door and pulled the mask off. The air felt cool on Ben's skin and he realized he'd been sweating. Nothing ever felt the same in the suit... or after it.

He looked at the empty syringe in his hand, already forming notes in his head that he would jot down later.

"What are you doing?" Patrick asked, startling him.

Ben hadn't thought to check the hall before solidifying. He turned his arm so the syringe was hidden. "Hey, Patrick."

Pat eyed him as he closed the distance between them. "Resurrecting your boogieman routine as a solo act, Ben?"

Ben could tell the guy didn't approve, which he found hypocritical. "No. I was checking on his dreams."

"You were what?"

"He has nightmares," Ben explained, warming to his half-truth explanation. "He recently told me they've gotten worse so I was monitoring him while he slept."

"Right," said Patrick, sounding unconvinced. He put a hand on the wall next to Ben's head and leaned closer. "I'm thinking he doesn't need the kind of personal therapy that involves this." He tapped the hood in Ben's nearest hand. "Not anymore. Next time you feel like creeping around someone's room, come find me. I can give you something real nice to monitor."

The statement was equal parts threat and offer. It made Ben squirm. But he couldn't step away because he didn't want to expose the syringe. "I'll keep that in mind," he said. "I'm going to go, uh. Get out of this thing."

He dematerialized.

...

Ben reappeared in the basement where he dropped the empty syringe onto the desk of Charles Montgomery. The doctor was nursing his ether mask but he lowered it when Ben arrived.

"It worked," said Ben. He dropped the suit's hood on a nearby shelf and sat down on a stool. "I've got to hand it to you: You know your sedatives."

"You should study more," Charles said. "I have a whole library back there. Feel free to peruse it." He lifted his mask for a long draft.

"Do you think that stuff would work on the living?" Ben wondered after a moment.

"It should," said Charles after he lowered the mask again. "The opioid... Moira gave you worked perfectly fine... when you were alive."

"Did you give her that?"

The surgeon shrugged. "Nothing personal. She asked for it."

Ben knew the maid had drugged him but he hadn't thought much about it since the day he confronted her about it. Too many things had happened too fast.

"The effects of substances on ghosts," Charles said. He let his arm dangle but didn't completely release the mask. "Seems to depend... on belief. If we believe we're getting high... or shot... It happens. If we believe another ghost is getting stabbed... it happens... whether they like it or not. It just doesn't last as long if they... if they know what they're fighting off."

Ben nodded. "I've noticed that. I guess some things have to be believed to be seen."

"Belief..." said Charles. "Faith can move mountains... Cause the dead to rise... The blind to see..."

"I think it was Goethe who said, 'Man is made by his belief. As he believes, so he is.'" Ben smiled ruefully. "I wonder if he knows how right he was."

**...**

**2017 - three weeks before Christmas**

It was very late at night. Rubber Man crouched over Violet's sleeping form but it wasn't visions of sugarplums she was having. She'd been dreaming about something pleasant when he slid into the room but the dream shifted when he got close to her. She was more sensitive than most to his presence. A quick jab of sedative from the needle rigged in the wrist of the suit ensured she stayed asleep but it didn't keep her dreams pure.

...

Violet was at an amusement park. It was a bright summer day. She was with friends. She was happy. Then the sun set, so fast it was like it had fallen from the sky. A cold wind blew her hair back and she looked up to see dark clouds blotting out the stars. Her friends and the other people on the midway scattered for shelter from the coming storm but Violet just stood there.

Thunder rolled. Violet looked around and saw she was alone. It started to rain. It was a cold rain that stung her skin. She hugged herself for warmth and hurried over to a striped awning over a snack stand that was not only closed but looked abandoned for years. The amusement park decayed around her. It was like the rain was washing everything good from it. The colors, the life, bled out of it.

Across the paved walkway she saw movement between the rusted bumper cars and a broken skill game. It was too dark to tell who it was. The silhouette stopped and it was hard to distinguish it from the other shadows.

"Hello?" Violet called.

There was no answer.

Violet made a small frown. "I can see you over there."

The figure moved again and came toward her, out in the open. They were wearing that weird black rubber suit she'd seen Tate wear years ago, the one her dad had thrown away.

"Tate? What're you doing here?"

She left the shelter of the awning and moved toward him. The rain was cold, stinging her skin. She ignored it. He met her halfway and reached out to touch her cheek. She looked up at him.

"You're not supposed to be here," she said. She put her hand on his. She meant to brush him off but she didn't. "You have to go."

He pulled her in for a hug and she let him. She shut her eyes. The stinging rain sizzled on the ground. His embrace was protective; it sheltered her from the downpour.

"I've missed you," she whispered. "So much."

He held her a while longer then slipped away. She let him. She waited to cry till he was gone.

...

Rubber Man pulled out of Violet's dreams and leapt off her bed. He lingered in the shadows and watched her sleep for a while. Then he left her room. He shifted this way and that, through the house, and entered Tate's room.

The boy was asleep in bed but he wasn't alone in the room. A reading light shone where Patrick sat in a nearby chair, leafing through a photo album. He was looking quite at ease in briefs and a tank top, one foot propped on a rolling ottoman. He didn't see the shiny PVC-clad figure. Rubber Man thought about injecting him with some of the sedative he carried. He moved closer.

Patrick noticed him then. He got up, outrage growing in his eyes. He dropped the book in the chair. "Get out."

Rubber Man retreated into the hall. Pat followed. He pulled the bedroom door shut behind him and reached for the rubber hood. He yanked it off Ben's head and then shoved him with it.

"What is your problem?" he demanded.

Ben clutched the hood. His thoughts were all twisted up. "I was just-"

Patrick eyed him. He was getting madder and it made him seem bigger to Ben.

"What? Playing Santa?" Pat poked the shorter man in the chest. "I told you Tate doesn't need you creeping around his room."

"What were you doing in there?" Ben countered. The poke irritated him but he didn't think getting physical was a good idea. So he defended himself the only other way he knew best.

Patrick scowled. "Keeping the boogieman away."

The answer was a little too long in coming. Pat had been to too many sessions with Dr. Harmon. Ben studied the other man with a more critical eye. "In your underwear?"

"Does it matter?"

"I think it matters a lot. I bet it would matter to Chad."

They eyed each other for a long moment, Patrick glaring and Ben meeting that glare steadfastly if smugly.

"Just stay away from us," Patrick said at last.

Ben retreated a few steps. But it was just to get out of arm's reach. "I'll talk to them whenever they want to. Chad can make decisions for himself and Tate was my patient long before I knew you."

That was the wrong tactic to take. Patrick bristled as he moved toward Ben, who retreated further down the hall.

"I don't care what he was to you while you were alive," Patrick growled. "I don't care what you're getting out of any of this shit, _doctor_. Back. The fuck. Off."

"Let's talk when you're calmer," Ben suggested. Then he vanished.

...

The next day, Chad was sanding a door that kept sticking when Patrick found him. "Every time I get something fixed," the black-haired man complained. "Something else stops working."

Patrick came over to the ladder and looked up at him, arms folded, expression dark. Chad looked down at him and raised a brow.

"I caught Ben sneaking around Tate's room last night," Pat said.

"Did you tell him to get his own bitch?"

"He was wearing the rubber suit," Patrick said, ignoring the jab. "It's not the first time I've caught him doing it."

Chad frowned and set the sanding block down on the ladder. "Really. And what was he up to?"

"He wouldn't tell me."

"Oh, he wouldn't?" said Chad as he came down off the ladder. He dusted his hands off. "Well. We'll just see about that."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I know people who lived through a school shooting. Tate's worst nightmare wasn't an easy piece for me to write but it's tied to an important part of his identity.

On a lighter note, I love slasher films. As a young teen my favorite was _A Nightmare on Elm Street pt. 3_. I loved it so much I had a giant poster of Freddy tacked to the ceiling over my bed so he was the last thing I would see when I fell asleep at night. I got rid of the poster a long time ago but I still love the man of my dreams.

So. Do you think Ben stopped being boogeyman during the year between times that Pat caught him? Or do you think he just got sneakier?

The next chapter's the last in this episode. After this episode's finished, look for Episode 3. Check my Profile for my season Playlist.


	7. Chapter 7 - Doctor's Orders

**2017 - 3 weeks before Christmas (cont.)**

When Ben entered his office next he found Chad sitting in the doctor's favorite rolling chair. Technically there was nothing that said the gay man couldn't sit there but it was highly unusual. It was Ben's seat.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Ben smiled. He pushed the office door shut.

"You know," said Chad. He smiled and crossed his legs. "I've heard it said that most psychiatrists get into the occupation because they're as crazy as their patients." He could tell by the way Ben's eyes narrowed that he struck a nerve. "But what special kind of bat-shit crazy does it take to make a person want to put on an S-and-M bondage suit and go sneaking around a sleeping kid's bedroom?"

Ben circled around the couch, eyes locked with Chad's. They were both still smiling but their expressions had nothing pleasant in them. Ben stopped a few paces from where Chad sat.

"I have a very good reason for doing what I was doing," Ben said. "If I were you, I would be more worried about what Patrick was doing in there in his underwear."

Chad shot him a withering look. "This last Halloween was the first time in years that I didn't have to wonder which gay bar Patrick was at, how many men he was trading blowjobs with or when he'd be home. He _hugged_ me goodnight. Do you know when the last time _that_ happened was? I'm not stupid. I just don't ask questions when I don't want to know the answers." His smile returned with a predatory edge. "I'm _much_ more interested in your 'very good reason' for stalking your patient, Dr. Caligari. Taking measurements for your cabinet?"

Ben's smile had completely evaporated by the time he sat down in one of the other chairs. "Tate has nightmares-"

"Of course he does!" Chad cut him off incredulously. "He's got a freak in a rubber suit creeping around him when he's trying to sleep! With your methods, it's no fucking wonder your last three living patients ended up dead."

It took a great deal of self-control for Ben to keep his temper in check. Every fiber of his being wanted to rip Chad's head off and beat him with it. "Tate has nightmares," he repeated through gritted teeth. "They've been getting worse. I've been trying for months to get him to try a medication that will help but he refuses."

"So you give it to me to slip into his food, genius. You don't put on a serial killer suit and go traumatizing him in the middle of the night."

Ben stared at Chad.

"It's the oldest trick in the book," Chad said in a tone that implied Ben was a moron. "What, they didn't teach you that at your crackerjack school of psychiatrics?"

Ben got up and went over to his desk. He pulled a pill bottle out and threw it at Chad who almost missed catching it. He looked at the label.

"One a day, close to bedtime," Dr. Harmon said. "If you can do better than I have, I will personally kiss your ass."

...

Violet's hair smelled like shampoo and cigarettes. She never used hairspray or even hair ornaments. Her makeup was a smear of cherry Chapstick. Tate wore more jewelry than she did. She was pure, natural beauty.

He remembered the first time he kissed her. When he'd read the Greek stories he'd wondered what ambrosia might taste like. He knew at that moment. He'd give anything to know that taste again. He licked his lips, imagining the light pressure was her mouth on his. The hand that stroked his cock was hers, not his.

He wanted her so badly it hurt inside.

He shot his load inside his pants and for a few precious seconds he touched heaven. Then the darkness sucked him back down to the nightmare that was his reality. He was in bed. He was alone. He was a mess.

There was a knock at the door. He yanked his hand out his jeans and smudged it under his blanket, regressing his age back down to his child aspect at the same time. That's all he had time to do before the bedroom door opened and Chad let himself in. He always did that. It was as infuriating as it was unpreventable.

The dark-haired man shut the door and came over to the bed where he sat down near Tate. "I just had a chat with Doctor Harmon. He thinks you need medication to help with your nightmares."

Tate couldn't believe his ears. "What? Did he say that?" Panic tinted the words.

"Yes, Tate, that's what he said. Did I stutter?"

"I don't need pills."

Chad looked the boy up and down. "Thank you for that insightful self-diagnosis. I'll make sure the prescription comes in a liquid. Do you want bubble gum flavor? Or would you rather get a suppository instead?"

Tate curled up, knowing he was under attack even though Chad's tone was perfectly even and his posture wasn't threatening. "I don't want anything."

"Why's that?"

"I don't like taking drugs," Tate sulked. He had to resist the urge to pull on his sleeve cuffs. "I don't like how they make me feel."

"Ever think that's how _normal_ feels?"

Tate shot a black look at him. "I don't want drugs."

"Well," Chad said. "What you want doesn't matter, baby boy. Patrick and I are still discussing it but what we decide is what goes. Do you understand?"

Tate didn't know whether to beg or throw a fit. He blinked fast but he couldn't stop the tears.

"Do you understand?" Chad repeated, stressing each syllable.

"Yes."

"Good. Now go clean up for dinner."

Chad let himself out of the boy's room. He wouldn't force the issue. He didn't have to. Starting with that night's meal he would simply follow the plan he had already outlined for Ben. Patrick had looked up the substance on the internet and it sounded like it did exactly what Chad had been told. If there were any ill effects, it would be simple enough to stop adding the ground-up pills to the boy's food.

...

... ...

Violet had been at the water park all day. The lines were short and the attractions were limitless but it was starting to get dark. The park lights popped on, bathing everything in garish color. The light made the shadows deeper.

She rode a fat inner tube down a long, twisty water slide. The slide turned into a tunnel. Darkness temporarily blinded her. Someone collided with her from behind and knocked her off her tube. She was free-sliding through blackness. She didn't want to get trapped between the slide and another rider's tube so she shoved herself along faster down the tunnel. Water slopped in her ears and got in her mouth. It tasted foul.

She shot out of the slide and landed with a splash in cold black water. She went under and surfaced with a gasp. She tugged her bikini top back into place then she swam for the stairs. She expected the tuber who hit her in the tunnel to come flying out but they didn't. Neither did her lost inner tube. There were no people standing near the ride, no one waiting in line. The park had gone silent as a graveyard.

Violet was alone.

She left the water. The cold air made her shiver. She hugged herself for warmth and trotted over to where she'd left her towel but it was gone. The chair she left it on was rusted as was the table beside it. Looking beneath it she saw that her shoes were missing too.

She decided to head for the locker room, where her clothes were. The shower building where the lockers were was close by. Everything she passed was trashed. It looked like nuclear winter had hit. There wasn't a soul around.

She ducked into the Ladies' side of the shower building. It looked no better than the outside. The white tile floor and walls were covered in mildew and rust stains. Cobwebs littered every corner, strong enough to trap leaves and finger-sized roaches.

Violet went to her locker and opened it. There was a towel hanging inside but it wasn't hers. It was one of Joshua's baby towels. It was super white and soft; the only clean thing she'd seen. She almost felt bad wrapping it around her shoulders. She looked in the locker again but the only other thing in it was Constance's photo of Tate and Addie. Violet picked it up, confused. Seeing both of those smiling dead faces made her sad.

She didn't notice the black form coming up behind her. Not until his hand was on her shoulder. She recognized the shiny black glove and felt better. As screwed up as the world had gotten, at least she had Tate.

"What's happening? Why's everything gone to shit?" she asked as she turned to look up at him.

He grabbed her by the throat. The photo fluttered to the floor. With one hand he lifted her off her feet. She pried at his fingers but his grip was iron. She tried to kick him but his reach was greater than hers; she couldn't make contact. She couldn't breathe. He lifted her higher, turning her this way and that, like a rag doll.

He turned suddenly and slammed her against the wall. Then he let her go and she dropped to the floor, leaving a streak of blood on the white tile wall where the back of her head struck it.

_~ Get up, Violet! _~

The feminine whisper reached her through the ringing in her ears. Dazed, she pushed herself up but Rubber Man grabbed her legs. He flipped her over onto her back.

"Tate! Stop it! Why are you doing this?!"

He tore her bikini bottom off, snapping the side straps. It hurt. Violet was fearless. She was brave. But she was overwhelmed. She scrunched her eyes shut.

"Go away, Tate! GO AWAY!"

Rubber Man didn't go away. He yanked open the zipper crotch of his suit and pulled out his dick. When she opened her eyes he was right on top of her. He overpowered her and forced his way inside her. He was too strong to fight off but Violet tried. He pinned her arms to her chest but she still kicked at him. It didn't matter. He just kept ramming himself into her.

He pulled out when he was done and slid to his feet. With a feral scream she tried to lunge him but he was too fast. He was gone before she could rally another attack. A sob tore from her lips but she forced herself to get up. As much as she wanted to lie down and cry out all the trauma, betrayal and pain, she knew she needed to get out. Get to someplace safe.

She picked up the towel and wrapped it around her waist with trembling hands. She couldn't find her swimsuit bottom. She didn't spend long looking for it. She went to the door and cautiously peeked around outside. It was night and it still looked like Chernobyl out there. She was all alone.

She slipped out and limped along the debris-strewn concourse, keeping close to the fence. Inside she had numbed up; the urge to cry had dulled to a hard ache in the pit of her stomach. Nothing made sense. Nothing made sense at all.

Near the exit she stopped to pick up a broken fence post. The metal bar was rusted but would serve as a weapon. The gravel in the empty parking lot hurt her bare feet but Violet kept going. It took an eternity before she finally reached the end of the parking lot. She started up the sidewalk. She turned a corner and found herself facing Murder House.

Violet stood there shivering and clutching her rusted pipe. She didn't want to go inside but she had to. She had no choice. She trudged up the walkway and let herself in.

"Mom?" she called. She sounded every bit as broken as she felt. Her head hurt when she raised her voice but she yelled anyway. "Mom? Dad?"

Nobody answered. Violet whimpered. She felt lost. The tears she hadn't cried before came out in a flood. Was she going crazy? Had she slipped fully out of life and into hell?

She saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. Something had darted by the dining room doorway. Violet turned and ran for the stairs. If she could just get to her room she knew she would be safe. She felt Rubber Man's hand touch her calf and she swung her pipe, whacking her pursuer in the shoulder. She clambered up the steps clumsily, tears streaking her face. She could hear him right behind her.

She made it to the landing and ran down the hall where she dove into her bedroom and slammed the door. She expected Tate to pound on the other side but he didn't. She locked the doorknob and backed away.

At any moment she knew he'd start hammering on the door.

"I scared you," an evil voice whispered right in her ear.

Violet screamed.

... ...

Rubber Man pulled out of Violet's nightmare. He left the room and traveled to a guest bathroom where Ben stripped the hood. It dropped from his numb fingers. He stumbled and sat down hard. The negativity of recent events had manifested through Ben inside his daughter's dream. In her dream, he hadn't been able to stop himself.

He tried to tell himself that it hadn't actually happened. It had just been a bad dream. A very bad dream.

Five minutes later he was a sobbing mess.

Ten minutes later he was gone.

He went to the basement where he joined Dr. Charles Montgomery in several rounds of sherry before experiencing his first ether roll. Inhaling the drug was a thorough cure for what ailed him. Nora found them both hours later slumped on her husband's work table. An old Count Basie record played on the wind-up RCA player.

"What a pair you make," she said with unveiled derision. "What next, Charles? Are you going to start a club? You're not content to wallow in your failure and misery alone so you have drag everyone else down with you? And you." She flicked her handkerchief at Ben. "Another bright mind gone soft. You think you're going to improve things like this?"

She may as well have been talking to a wall. The doctors were beyond comprehending anything she said. She lectured them for a while and, when she grew tired of it, she left.

And the record played on.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Roll credits. Check my Profile for song suggestions.

I appreciate all the reviews. I enjoy every tidbit in them. But I hope you are enjoying the Season even if you're not reviewing it. If you're just still with me after this episode, I'll consider myself lucky. I'm guessing you're either a fan or a masochist. Or both.

BTW, in _The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari _(the silent film Chad referenced), the doctor's somnambulent patient's name was Cesare. The guy who wrote the main theme for American Horror Story's name is Ceasar. Most of the movie takes place in a flashback.

If you haven't lost your appetite for destruction yet, **Episode 3** is called "**Monsters**" and will 'air' starting next week. It has some cover art I'm particularly fond of. Look for it in the Mature section of AHS Fanfic.

This episode ranked "Bram Stoker" on_ I Write Like..._


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